She paused for a moment and sat watching him put down his chisel, step back and survey his morning’s work. Even from her far corner of the workshop she could sense he was satisfied. A smile spread across his face, the same smile that used to cross her grandpa’s face when he’d successfully nailed a roof to a birdbox or helped her form the lip of a tricky jug to get it just so. It wasn’t the only similarity between the pair of them. Leo, like Lance, understood why she wanted to tie a navy apron over her sundress even though the day was beautiful, the countryside enticing and the beach at Sanremo just a bus ride away.
Despite the dust from Leo’s work, which forced her to wear a mask over her face, there was nowhere she’d rather be. With him she’d found the contentment and feeling of belonging she’d only found in Grandpa’s shed. Thinking of him, her hand strayed to the place where the coin necklace had nestled under her shirt yesterday, a momentary wave of panic hitting her before remembering she’d decided it was too precious to risk wearing every day.
But though Leo and her grandpa had some traits in common, being with Leo was something quite different. When she’d worked side by side with Grandpa, she’d feel her heartbeat slow down and the tensions of the week melt away. Being close to Leo had quite the opposite effect. Her heart raced, her nerves jangled and sometimes she realised she was holding her breath. If he hadn’t offered her a pitch in the furthest corner of his premises, she wouldn’t have a hope of creating the delicate patterns she was trying to execute. And now she realised it was time to take a break outside before she acted on the desire bubbling inside her to pull off his dust mask and goggles, flip the chisel from his hand and press her mouth against his. The almost peck on the lips he’d given her just days ago had promised so much more, hadn’t it?
She laid down her brush, untied her apron and made to slip out quietly.
‘Amy?’
She stopped halfway to the workshop’s open door.
‘Are you taking a walk? Will you wait for me?’ He took off his safety goggles, giving them a quick wipe with a rag.
‘I thought you didn’t have time.’
‘I don’t. It’s so important to get this memorial finished but there’s something on my mind and if I don’t do it soon, I’ll regret it.’
She waited for him to expand further but even as they started to walk along he didn’t offer any explanation and the sunglasses he’d put on made it hard to read his expression. He hadn’t even said where they were going but she recognised it as the route that led to the edge of the village and the crumbling steps that had taken them up to the Old Chapel. Ahead of them stood the stone archway and he stopped when they got there, looking out over the countryside.
‘This is my favourite of all the views here,’ he said. ‘Like a painting but one that’s subtly different every day.’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘I’m glad you think so. I wanted to bring you somewhere memorable.’ He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair.
‘For what?’ Amy said, but looking into his eyes she already knew. And he’d already moved a little closer. She breathed in his scent of woody cologne and stone dust.
‘For this.’ He touched her bottom lip with one work-roughened finger. Warmth flooded though her. He wrapped his arms around her, his bare arms touching hers where the sleeves of his overall were rolled up above the elbows. She closed her eyes. His mouth sought hers. The ground seemed to shift as though the stone archway itself might crumble.
They kissed for a long time. Eventually he broke away. She opened her eyes. Through the archway the sun bleached the red rooftops, the sky above the dark green hills a pure bright blue. But even if they’d been standing in the bin-lined alleyway behind the pizzeria, the view would have been equally memorable. This was a moment she would never forget.
37
Domenico rested his elbows on the table; he threaded his fingers together. ‘Your nonno was killed in the war like your mamma and papà told you. But he wasn’t a civilian casualty. The last time Arturo and I saw him alive was the day the Germans came.’
‘But why didn’t Papà tell me…’ Stella began.
Domenico exhaled: a long, sad sigh. ‘Sometimes something happens to a man that alters him so fundamentally, he fears that speaking about it will bring the whole edifice of his life crumbling down. And that is how it was with my brother.
‘Arturo was just eight years old on the day of the massacre. I was six, we two were the youngest of five children. Our two brothers were much older, away fighting, our only sister was nursing at a hospital in Trieste. Only Arturo and I were still at home. I hero-worshipped your papà. He was everything a big brother should be.’
Domenico closed his eyes for a second before he continued: ‘On the day of the massacre, the war in Italy was far from over. The fascist government in the North and their German masters were desperate and angry. Despite their denials, they must have known their once-inevitable victory over the Allies was now slipping away. Even at home, the partisan fighters were inflicting embarrassing losses. The Germans sent soldiers into villages thought to be hiding Allied prisoners of war or supporting the rebels. Revenge wasn’t an eye for an eye, the authorities announced they would kill tenItalians for every German killed by the partisans. Danger was never far away. But nothing of that sort went on here, there were just a few local lads hiding away, ignoring the orders to go and fight. We never expected therastrellamento– the sweeping up of their enemies – to happen here.
‘There was no warning, no inkling of trouble until a young man bicycled into the village, sounding the alarm that the Germans were coming. Papà was calm, intent on reassuring Mamma but he told us boys to run and hide, he wanted us out of the way. Arturo and I ran past Sant’ Agata’s. Fernanda was playing in the piazza. I grabbed her hand and took her with us.’
Fernanda?Stella bit her tongue, not wanting to interrupt Domenico’s tale.
‘There was an old barn on the edge of the village, a broken-down carriage abandoned there. Arturo and I had discovered it some months before whilst playing hide and seek. We’d hollowed out a space beneath the seat; it would just about hide two. I don’t know how we thought all three of us would fit in there. But when we passed under the old stone arch, Arturo broke away from us. He said it was better if we split up, that he had another hiding place. I was used to doing what my big brother told me and we had no time to argue. The roar of their engines, the shouting and the sounds of people running told us the soldiers were already here. I pulled Fernanda into our hiding place.
‘We didn’t know what was going on but even in there we could hear gunfire, people’s screams. I’ve never kept so quiet and still in all my life. I held my finger to Fernanda’s lips to stop her whimpering. I was shaking, scared. I admit I wet myself.
‘It was several hours before we dared creep out. It was eerie, the streets quiet and still. The smell of burning hung in the air. Fernanda and I parted without a word. I ran home. Mamma clutched me to her, weeping. I asked for Papà. She broke down again.’
Domenico reached into his trouser pocket, brought out a huge spotted handkerchief and blew his nose. Stella realised she was chewing on her nails.
‘A neighbour was sitting in the corner of our living room, a nice lady, I don’t remember her name. She told me Papà was in heaven and I must be quiet and good and brave like Arturo and not bother Mamma with any questions. It was only then that I noticed my brother curled up in the corner. I asked him what time he’d got home and where he’d been. He didn’t answer. Just stared as though he didn’t know who I was. All evening, he didn’t say a word.
‘The next day, he was just the same, he didn’t utter a sound, just lay on our bed. Mamma wandered the house in a daze. It frightened me. I wanted to cheer her up and in my childish way I thought it would please her if I tidied the bedroom Arturo and I shared. And that’s when I knew Arturo had hidden away close enough to see. To be a witness. Hiszoccoliwere by the bed. You know what those are, don’t you, Stella? A leather strap nailed to a block of wood. All of us village kids wore them; no family here could afford proper shoes, not for feet that outgrew them in no time. At first, I didn’t realise what I was looking at. Then I held them up to the light and saw they were covered in blood. I threw them to the floor and ran out into the street. When I returned that night, they were gone.’
